The excitement from the Christmas Day game lingered in Boston's sports media for a full week.
The following morning, the Boston Globe's sports section featured a huge color photograph on its front page: Gerald Wallace arching his body mid-air to dunk over Barkley. The headline consisted of only one bold word: " Crash ".
This nickname that accompanied him throughout high school suddenly became a new favorite among fans at the New Garden. Local television stations repeatedly broadcast highlights of his 21-point outburst in the second half, with commentators excitedly banging on the table during the program, declaring that Boston had found the Answer their future forward position.
After every game, Wallace's locker was surrounded by microphones and cameras in the locker room. This young man from Childersburg, Alabama, grew up in a rural area with only 5,000 inhabitants. He was used to throwing himself into the air recklessly on the court, but had no idea how to deal with the flashing lights. He always kept his head down, scissors ripping off the duct tape on his ankle, and stammering in his thick Southern accent as he answered reporters' questions, repeating only a few phrases like "run more" and "play tougher."
The media loves this raw, unpolished physical talent.
But in the NBA, it's the tactical analysis room behind the spotlight that determines whether a rookie survives.
The assistant coaches of each team analyzed Wallace's 21 points frame by frame. Those thrilling full-court sprints that got the fans' blood pumping were ultimately distilled into a simple line on the scouting report by the coaching staff: cut off long passes, force him into your own half, and then leave him open.
As we entered early January, the regular season schedule became more congested. Boston faced the challenge of the Miami Heat. Pat Riley's team retreated on defense extremely quickly, dragging the game into their own half from the start.
Billups at the top of the key, directing his teammates' movements. Gerald Wallace stands in the right corner, his toes on the three-point line, arms outstretched, ready to receive the ball.
The Heat guard guard defending him was standing on the edge of the paint below the free-throw line, a full three meters away from Wallace. The Heat guard's body was completely turned to the strong side, ready to double-team Garnett in the low post, leaving only a back to him in the corner.
Wallace was completely left unmarked, received a pass from Billups.
There was nothing but emptiness in front of me.
Wallace's feet were firmly planted on the floor. In Alabama's high school league, whenever he had the ball, he could easily dribble past his defender and dunk over two people. Instinct drove him to dribble and accelerate, but Alonzo Mourning's broad shoulders completely blocked any path to the baseline. If he drove in, the Heat's interior defense would immediately shut him down, drawing an offensive foul.
He took a deep breath, recalling the movement requirements from the Milan training center. He bent his knees slightly, not jumping too high, and raised his starting point from his waist to in front of his forehead, tightening his elbows, which had previously been turned outwards, inwards.
A flick of the wrist. This is a fairly standard set-point shooting motion in video replay.
The basketball glides through the air.
"Bang!"
The basketball slammed against the front of the rim and bounced high. Mourning boxed out Big Ben under the basket and secured the rebound.
A brief sigh escaped the home fans. Wallace flicked his right hand, turned, and ran back.
Two rounds later, in the same half of the court, in the same position.
Garnett was double-teamed in the paint and passed the ball to Wallace in the corner. The Heat guard remained standing three meters away, not even extending a hand, watching him from the paint.
Wallace's fingers tightened slightly as he caught the ball. He raised the ball again, repeating the same stationary motion.
"Bang!"
The basketball hit the side of the rim and bounced out of bounds.
Two shots, zero misses.
On his third touch in the corner, Wallace stopped. He held the basketball to his chest with both hands, bent his knees slightly, and then straightened up. He looked at the defender three meters away and didn't shoot. The previously smooth passing game stalled here, forcing Billups to run back to receive the ball and reorganize the offense.
In the third quarter, when the Heat missed another shot from half-court, Boston grabbed the rebound and launched a fast break.
Wallace sprinted at full speed, his feet making a crisp sound on the floor. He had just crossed the center line, ready to receive Billups ' pass, when the Heat's retreating guard did not reach out to steal the ball. Instead, he stood with his feet together and his hands protectively over his chest in front of the free-throw line.
Wallace received the pass while sprinting at high speed, his body momentum was immense. He tried to stop his steps and change direction, but his high center of gravity caused the basketball to slip slightly out of his control. In an attempt to protect the ball, the soles of his shoes slid across the floor with a screeching sound, and he and the ball crashed directly into the chest of the defender who had already positioned himself.
The two fell to the floor at the same time, making a dull thud.
"Beep..."
The baseline referee's gesture was extremely decisive: charging foul. Offensive foul.
Wallace sat on the floor, panting heavily, sweat dripping from his brow bone into his eyes, stinging slightly. Rick Carlisle called for a substitution. Wallace walked off the field with his head down, took the towel handed to him by the team doctor, sat at the end of the bench, covered his head with the towel, and remained silent.
Inside the VIP box, Lin Qi watched the figure covered with a towel. Shooting coach Chip Engelland sat next to him, holding a freshly printed halftime statistics sheet.
"His power generation mechanism, which he developed in Milan, is still there," Engelland, looking at the statistics. "But in a real game, facing the roar of the crowd and the pressure of the score, his muscles instinctively want to revert to the most comfortable and primal way of generating power. This leads to his extremely inconsistent shooting."
"Is it even possible to master it?" Lin Qi picked up the water glass on the table and took a sip.
"Yes," Engelland replied confidently, but then sighed, "But this process really can't be rushed. Muscle memory takes years to build up. Right now, it's like he has two operating systems installed in his brain at the same time, and his body will conflict when faced with the high pressure of actual combat."
Lin Qi placed his water glass on the table. "He used to play too easily. In rural Alabama, he could dominate the game with his physical attributes alone. But in the NBA, all the coaches in the league figured him out in just one week."
"He only knows how to step on the gas, he doesn't know how to slow down while moving." Lin Qi's eyes didn't leave the court. "Once he can't get going, and he can't make open shots on the perimeter, he'll naturally hit the rookie wall."
On the field, the game continues.
Wallace sat on the bench, listening to the sound of his shoes rubbing against the floor and the referee's continuous whistles.
The media frenzy following the Christmas battle felt like a beautiful dream.
But upon waking from the dream, this rookie discovered that he still had to face that most basic question...
Shoot the ball in.